


Long Live the Warchief

by feelgoodchuckletrain



Category: World of Warcraft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-16
Updated: 2016-11-16
Packaged: 2018-08-31 10:19:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8574520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feelgoodchuckletrain/pseuds/feelgoodchuckletrain
Summary: (Major Legion Spoilers)Not everyone dies a heroic death like Varian Wrynn. But the Warchief deserved better. A series of vignettes before, during and after Vol'jin's death that attempt to give a narrative purpose for his passing without changing anything that was actually presented.





	

Vol'Jin sat heavily on the Warchief's throne. It was never comfortable for him, his legs were much longer than an Orc's. He glanced down at the wound in his side, as it gave another angry, felfire throb. He smiled bleakly around a mouthful of tusk. At least he wouldn't have to be sitting here much longer.

"The Warchief will need time to recover," said Gallywix, waving off some of his entourage. They had pressing questions about the economics surrounding the death of the human king and what it meant for trade agreements. In an undertone, the trade prince leaned down from his mech and muttered "Do buy Steamwheedle stock. If they're wise they'll press their advantage while the Eastern Kingdoms weaken--to say nothing of shipping goods for the memorial." The goblins nodded fervently before scuttling out of the greathall.

"Shall we bring you to your chambers to rest, Warchief?" Asked Baine Bloodhoof. His snuffling rumble of a voice was punctuated by the fel blood still dripping from his totem.

"Dat be kind of you to say," said Vol'jin, resting his hand on the edge of the throne, tapping his long fingers. "But ya Warchief be dyin'."

"No," said Baine, shaking his immense, woolly head. "You can regenerate. You can..." He looked up to Vol'jin on his throne. Their eyes met and silently agreed on the truth. "What manner of poison is this?" Baine asked, his voice growing weightier with finality. "What demon swung the sword, with poison powerful enough to kill you? Who let it through the line?!"

"Far be it from me to cast any suspicion," said Lor'themar Theron airily, half-stepping in front of the Tauren, his pointed pink ears barely reaching Baine's chin. "But you will notice that one among our number did not respond to the Warchiefs' summons."

"Busy as usual, no doubt," muttered Gallywix. "That broad's got more irons in the fire than a goblin iron firer. On iron firing day."

"Thrall is not present either," said Baine evenly. "It's hardly fair to blame Sylvana--"

"Thrall was thrown down in the dirt nearly as hard as the Warchief," countered Lor'themar. He pointed an angry hand at Vol'jin's shattered tusk, from where he fell on the Broken Shore. "Sylvanas had nary a scratch on her. Perhaps her heart gave out. Oh wait," his lips curled, "It doesn't beat, does it?"

"I don't be knowin' who poisoned da spear what felled me," said Vol'jin, silencing the room. His voice still carried, even though it was strained. "But I know my time be short. We got'sta name a new Warchief. We got'sta fortify our defenses, and figure out who be replacing Varian as leader of da Alliance. We got'sta," he stopped, coughing. "We got'sta..." His vision swam in front of him.

Bwonsamdi chuckled in front of him, bringing a long, carved pipe of tusk up to his lips. Fragrant smoke that smelled of tobacco and starlight rose wafted up from the bowl. "You be knowin' ya time come soon, eh Warchief?"

"Even you be callin' me that now," muttered Vol'jin. The throne room was gone. He was back in Sen'jin village. A bonfire crackled between him and the Loa across from him. A pig roasted on the fire. "What a strange and wondaful world."

"Dat world not be bein' yours much longer," said the Loa. He pulled back the brim of his hat. Half his face was torn, chiseled down to the bone and tusk, the smiling face of the god of death. "So we be makin' ya time count, eh?"

"Fine den, you speak and I listen and I eat dis pig," said Vol'jin, reaching into the fire. It barely singed him, and he sliced off a section of the pork with his tusk. The grease burnt his lips and tongue and fingers, but it felt good. It felt alive, and for the moment the throbbing of the fel poison in his veins did not hurt him. He did not know the manner of this vision, but the loa worked in mysterious ways that he would take advantage of while he had the chance.

"Your time be growin' so, so short," mused Bwonsamdi. "But ya still be eatin' and drinkin' and enjoyin' ya life. Shame it had to be ya. It almost makes a loa feel bad about takin' ya back." The spirit shook its head, taking another long pull on the pipe. "Ya be goin' back not long now, so the one thing you gotta do is name da new Warchief. We done seen the tragedy that could befall ya, ya people, da Horde if ya choose wrong. So the important thing is to name SYLVANAS."

Vol'jin swallowed hard, blackened, half-chewed pig scorching the inside of his throat. "I don't think I be hearin' ya right."

"SYLVANAS," Bwonsamdi repeated. His head nodded, but the movements of his lips didn't quite match up. His voice seemed different when he spoke her name. Vol'jin's vision was swimming again. "The Warchief must be SYLVANAS WINDRUNNER."

"But why her? Cunning she be, and a great general, but she not be a leader of da Horde," said Vol'jin, letting the pig drop into the ashes. His fingers felt so weak. The pain in his side began to jab at him again. His veins seemed to struggle to pulse.

"...Must lead the Horde," he heard Bwonsamdi say, as his vision slid back to the throne room. Baine was holding him up. Jastor Gallywix shook his arm with an uncommon look of concern.

"Warchief? WARCHIEF?!"

"Quiet ya down Baine," murmured Vol'jin. "Somebody bring me da Banshee Queen."

=====

Syl'vanas thrust open the double-doors to a room full of uncomfortably-shuffling men. That by itself was not a new feeling for her. Vol'jin on the throne she had grown used to, gradually. But now he looked weak, frail. That, that was new. She'd seen the troll drunk during Brewfest in Orgrimmar, half-slumped over Rexxar, his eyes half-closed. She'd seen him catching an hour of sleep before a battle, up half the night sending runners and making decisions to set the stage for combat. But never had she seen him look so frail.

She felt a tingle where her tear ducts had dried up half a lifetime ago. It wouldn't have made it past her eyes even if they hadn't. The troll had never liked her. But this was momentous for the Horde. The life and still-beating heart of the Darkspear was pumping ink through his veins. One of his eyes had milked over and gone blind. His tusk was shattered, cracks running down to the base. Splinters in it shifted slightly as he breathed. The troll who held the Horde together while Garrosh rampaged, who Thrall had personally appointed with the blessing of every leader, even begrudgingly hers, he was dying. Sylvanas knew death when she saw it.

"Windrunna," he said, breathily. The power was leaving his voice too. "Come fo'ward."

"Warchief," she said respectfully, looking up to him, biting back her question. What was this for?

"Da loa spirits say death will claim me soon," rasped Vol'jin, struggling to draw breath.

"In the end, death claims us all. But the Horde will live on," she said, firmly. When he'd fallen in the battlefield, he'd asked her to make sure the Horde didn't die. She'd fulfilled that promise, though the retreat had pained her.

"I have neva trusted you," spat the Warchief, his spittle all black and red with blood and poison. "Nor would I have evah imagined in our darkest time, dat you would be da one to save us."

Murmurs around the room, though they silenced as he drew in another long, rasping breath. "Da spirits have granted me clarity. A vision." He traced his two long fingers through the smoke brimming in the altar next to him. It smelled of tobacco and starlight rose. "Dey whisper a name. Many will not understand. But you must step out of de shadows and lead."

Gallywix and Lor'themar shared a long glance. He couldn't possibly mean it. Baine hung his head heavily, snuffing his nostrils.

"You must be..." He rasped, and coughed, his head lolling onto his shoulders. "War... Chief..."

The light left Vol'jin's eyes. And as it did, the Darkspear finally died.

=====

"Have the grunts build a funeral pyre," said Sylvanas heavily. Several minutes had passed. No one quite dared to speak. "At sunset, we'll begin the funeral."

"No," said Lor'themar, stepping forward. The banshee queen rounded on him, her eyes fierce and jaw set. "No," he repeated, undeterred. "I will not accept this lying down. You are the least qualified to lead us."

"Regent Lord," said Baine. His hand out-stretched towards the blood elf.

"Your Warchief can speak for herself, Chieftain," said Sylvanas sharply. "Say your piece, Lord Theron."

"Fine." He said to her face, turning to face the other leaders. "Are we going to take Vol'jin's word for this? Based on a spirit none of us could see? While unheard of fel poison coursed through his veins?"

"What are you insinuating, exactly? So I know how to dodge the libel suit," said Gallywix, chomping on the bit of a cigar, freshly lit off his walker's boiler.

"Vol'jin was our warchief but he was in no position to elect his successor. This should be put to a vote at the very least," said Lor'themar. "What reason do we have to trust the banshee queen? Have you forgotten her use of the Val'kyr? She made more Forsaken. Against their will. Against ours!"

"Those risen by my servants have the option of being returned to the grave," said Sylvanas. "Once they have shaken off the rage of the dead, and they have time to consider my offer."

"It is unnatural," said Lor'themar.

"There are some who would argue the consumption of mana to sustain your physical body is unnatural," countered Sylvanas. "Forgive me for seizing the opportunity to preserve my people. We are all in the Horde to keep our ways of life."

"That is hardly the same. And that does not make you a Warchief," said the blood elf. "You don't care for my people. You don't care for his--" he jerked his thumb towards Baine. "To say nothing of the Darkspear. Vol'jin treated the many peoples of the Horde as a family. You use our troops as canon fodder to preserve your own. Don't think we haven't noticed."

"I was their queen. Now, I am your Warchief. Every life you lose will pain me as every Forsaken returned to the beyond pains me."

"Ain't nobody flips a switch like that, toots," said Gallywix. "You care or you don't. I don't care about any of you mouthbreathers if you're not keeping me afloat or making me money. Own it, if you hate us."

"We're not all inclined to sell our people out at the first sign of danger," rumbled Baine. "There are some things more important than money."

"That," said Gallywix, biting back down on the cigar, "Is where we disagree. I'll make this simple here, since I'm a businessman. You want to put it to a vote? I vote for Windrunner."

"I vote against," said Lor'themar.

"It doesn't matter," said the trade prince, steepling his fingers. "Thrall doesn't have a vote right now. I vote for her, she votes for herself." He shrugged. "If you vote against and Baine votes against, then we have a stalemate. She's our acting leader until the Farseer wakes up to break our little tie." He tossed the stump of his cigar into his walker's steamer. "It's moot to begin with, though. The Horde isn't a democracy. Vol'jin elected his own successor. As the only one of us that maintains legal counsel, I'm gonna tell you that it's airtight."

"I do not trust this," said Lor'themar, turning from the goblin (and Baine's look of revulsion), "I don't trust you, Windrunner. But we must bury our Warchief. When Thrall awakes, we shall revisit this."

"I am your Warchief," said Sylvanas. Her voice was shrill. Though it didn't have Vol'jin's pleasing rumble, it was equally good at silencing a room. "Build the funeral pyre," the Dark Lady repeated, stepping past the blood elf. Baine's heavy hand landed on her shoulder. She turned up to him with a look that could wither a treeant.

"I mean you no disrespect, Warchief," said Baine quietly. "But the Darkspear do not burn their dead. They mummify them."

"Fel poison courses through his veins. Burning is the only safe course of action." Her voice was cold. Lor'themar turned away, rubbing his good eye. Even Gallywix let out a low whistle.

"Can we not wait?" He asked. "Thrall is recovering. Rexxar still covers the ranges. The Darkspear are scouting and burying their other dead. His closest friends..."

"Are not my concern in a time of war, Chieftain," said Sylvanas, shrugging off his hand. "I will afford him the courtesy he is due, but we have pressing matters to attend to."

"As the Warchief commands," said Baine, shaking his head. "Build the pyre."

=====

Sylvanas Windrunner stood in front of a pile of sticks and branches, atop the altar at the gates of Orgrimmar. Even for her spartan sensibilities, it seemed a little sad. But she had to press on. And not just that, but to make the most of this moment.

"When Thrall made Vol'jin our Warchief," she said, looking over the murmuring crowd, "He said that he was not worthy. But he said he would do his best. We all accepted him, immediately. He was the glue that held the Horde, held our family together, when Garrosh tried to lead us into the darkness of tyranny."

She gestured to the side, and the grunts lit the pyre. Flame slowly crackled behind her. "He had little opportunity to act as Warchief, but in many ways that was a sign of how good a choice he was. Even Varian Wrynn knew that Vol'jin was a force to be reckoned with." It was a lie. Variann knew Vol'jin wanted peace, and the troll was better for him on the throne than off. But she could see that the crowd was hanging onto her words. She only needed to stoke the fire in them as the pyre burned. "Under his leadership, we knew more peace than we have known for a long time."

"You may not take to me as readily. I have less friends than Vol'jin. I have a role just as large to fill now, with him gone." She licked her lips, turning to the fire, watching the flames lick along his poison-ravaged body. Her voice was loud enough to carry, even turned away. "Vol'jin named me his successor with his dying breath. I can only repeat his words. I am not worthy, but I will give my all, for the Horde."

She turned, looking across the crowd. Ready to set them loose for blood. "Vol'jin is dead. Who among you will help me avenge him?" They shouted, screamed, applauded. The chant began from somewhere in the back.

"For the Horde! For the Horde! For the Horde! LOK'TAR OGAR!"

=====

A single low candle guttered in Jastor Gallywix's study. It was snuffed in an instant and the goblin sighed, shutting his ledger, but marking the page. He still had figures to go over. "Blightcaller," he said, "It's been a long day."

"I feel much the same. It's all been one long day," said Nathanos. "Ever since I died."

"What do you want, Champion?" Asked Gallywix. "And make it quick."

"What role did you play in all this?" Nathanos asked. "I don't know if my lady noticed, but it would surprise me had she not."

"I can neither confirm nor deny--" He caught a dangerous glow in the dead man's eyes. "Fine. I commissioned a warlock to kill Vol'jin. You'd be amazed at the kind of poison you can buy when you have almost infinite resources."

"Why did you want the troll dead?" Blightcaller asked again. Shaking his head. "This is high treason. Incredibly high treason."

"And if you expose it now, the Horde crumbles. The Goblins won't be surprised at my work, of course, but the Orcs loved Vol'jin. They'll demand the Goblin slums be torn down and removed. They'll kill dozens by the time the grunts get Orgrimmar under control, and it will happen every other day for weeks until Thrall is well enough to truly restore order." He re-lit his guttered candle, holding up the holder and lighting a fine cigar off of it. "To say nothing of the feelings toward your lady when they find out I bamboozled the Darkspear into choosing her for the throne as well."

Nathanos Blightcaller seemed to have fallen silent. He shook his head, leaning on Jastor's desk.

"Of course, if people find out Sylvanas wasn't meant to take the throne, they'll riot. She won't want to give it up. The Forsaken, I imagine, will end up leaving the Horde by the end of it, one way or another. Tell me Nathanos, are you willing to quell a race riot in Orgrimmar and angry mob marching on Undercity, all while fighting Greymane and with Gul'dan lurking on the horizon?" He wore the shit-eating grin of a Goblin who either had, or was about to explain his masterstroke.

"I should have your head for this, Trade Prince," hissed Nathanos, drawing a long, thin blade. He had to kneel to press it against Gallywix's throat.

"Ah," said the Goblin, putting his cigar up to his teeth, "But you won't. Because a full bound detail of this treason is waiting in an undisclosed location. If you kill me, the book opens, and per my instructions, copies will be sent to every Horde capital city." The blade withdrew from his neck as he took a long drag on his cigar. "Besides. Your Queen is now the Warchief. This is better-than-lateral move for you, my boy! You should be thanking ol' Gallywix."

"I'll thank you for nothing," said the dead man, striding to the window and spinning his blade back into his sheath. "When the Alliance is dealt with, and Gul'dan is dead in the ground, I will have your head."

"It's a date then," said Gallywix airily. The window shut to his side as he returned to his figures. He had his work cut out for him, laundering the five million gold he'd been given for this little caper. On the plus side, with the fighting between the Alliance and the Horde in full swing, bullets and bandages would be reliable sellers. He exhaled, putting his cigar into an ashtray as he worked, where it gently smoked, smelling of tobbacco and Starlight rose.


End file.
